Not temporary.
I stared at him.
“You told me we were only giving ourselves time to think.”
Michael went pale.“You were exhausted. I was trying to make things easier.”
“By making the decision for me?”
The nurse looked at me.
“You can still change your mind. Nothing is final yet.”
For the first time since my son had been born, I felt like I could breathe again.
I turned toward the hospital.
Michael grabbed my arm.
“Emily, think about our life.”
I pulled myself free.
“That is exactly what I’m doing.”
Then I started running.
I left the empty baby carrier on the pavement and rushed back through the hospital doors.
By the time I reached the maternity floor, I was crying so hard I could barely speak.
“I want my baby back.”The social worker stood up from her desk.
Michael arrived several seconds later.
“Emily, stop. You’re making an emotional decision.”
I turned toward him.
“No. I made an emotional decision when I signed those papers because I was terrified.”
The hallway went silent.
Then I asked the question I had been afraid to say out loud.
“Do you even want him?”
Michael looked at me.
Finally, he answered.
“I don’t want this kind of life.”
Those words ended something inside me.
But it wasn’t my love for my son.
It was my marriage.I went into the nursery.
The nurse placed my baby in my arms.
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He was sleeping, his tiny face pressed against my chest.
I kissed his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Mommy came back.”
Three days later, I left the hospital with my son.
Michael didn’t come with us.
I moved in with my parents, and one month later, I filed for divorce.
The first year was difficult.
Appointments.
Therapy.
Sleepless nights.
Moments when I locked myself in the bathroom and cried because I was afraid I wasn’t strong enough.
But there was laughter too.
My son’s first smile.His first word.
The first time he reached toward me and said:
“Mama.”
